Page 92 of Tricked By Jack
My gut coils tight, acid churning. I know what he isn’t saying—that we’ve both made enemies. That the list of people who’d want to hurt us would fill a fucking phone book. That the timing, so soon after I’ve taken Eve as my wife, creates a vulnerability we can’t ignore.
I’m on my feet before I realize I’m moving, my body thrumming with an urgency that drowns out the fatigue of hours spent sifting through ash and debris.
“I need to get back to Eve.” The words come out rough, urgent.
Nick studies me, taking in the tension wired through my frame, the barely leashed violence in my stance. “You love her?” he asks, his tone clipped.
Fuck me, now isn’t the time to get into this shit. “I do.”
For a moment I think he’ll order me to stay—to put business before personal concerns—and I’m already calculating how much that command will cost our relationship.
But he just nods once, sharp and decisive. “Go then. Take Ned.”
“And you?” I ask, already moving toward the door, Ned a step behind me.
“I’ll talk to Carolina. Get her and Willow somewhere secure until we know what we’re dealing with.” He drains his whiskey in a single swallow, the only sign of his own unease. “And Jack?”
I pause at the threshold, hand already on the doorknob. “Yeah?”
“Look after your wife.”
As I stride out, the taste of smoke turns to ash in my mouth, bitter, and foreboding. Whatever game is being played, the opening move has been made.
I’ve always had a penchant for gambling, but I usually never get in without even knowing what game we’re playing. But no matter the rules, now it’s our turn.
The drive back to Eve’s apartment stretches like a garrote—tight, biting deeper with every mile. Ned doesn’t speak beside me. He doesn’t need to. The smoke smell has settled into both our clothes, a constant reminder of the trap someone’s sprung.
My knuckles bleach white against the steering wheel as I take a corner too fast, headlights smearing across rain-slick asphalt like watercolors bleeding through paper. My jaw aches from clenching, molars grinding together with each block we pass. Something cold has settled in my gut—not fear, something worse. Certainty.
“Take it easy,” Ned says. “I’d like to get back to my sister in one piece.”
“I need to get to her,” I growl.
Ned nods, his profile sharp in the passing streetlights. “You told her to stay put. She’ll be fine.”
“We’ll see,” I reply. I hope Ned’s right, but with my luck I’m already trying to come up with worst-case scenarios to prepare myself.
The words taste hollow. We both know that the best way to go after a Knight is to capture a pawn. And fuck knows the city is full of men who’ll do whatever it takes for power and money.
With each mile closer to Eve, my body coils tighter. My shoulders bunch beneath my shirt, neck rigid, something primal rising beneath my skin. The steering wheel creaks under my grip, plastic protesting as I take the final turn onto her block.
I park half on the curb, engine still running as I slam out of the car. Ned is right behind me, his footsteps echoing mine up the stairs. We don’t wait for the elevator. Don’t trust the crawling pace of machinery when every second pulses like a countdown.
The hallway to Eve’s apartment is too quiet, our footsteps and breathing the only sounds. Even before we reach her door, I feel it—the wrongness, the absence where she should be.
Though closed, her door isn’t locked, and I quickly shove it open. “Eve?”
Silence is all that greets me as I rush inside.
The apartment feels hollow, the air too still, like a stage after the actors have gone home. Ned pushes past me, calling Shelby’s name, but the lack of answer is confirmation enough.
“Eve!” I bellow, moving from room to room. It’s pointless. Her place is too small for her not to hear me. The fact that she isn’t replying can only mean… “Answer me, for fuck’s sake!”
“Shelby? Shel, where are you?” Ned shouts for his sister while I’m looking for my wife.
When I’ve gone through every room twice and end up back in the living room, I slam my fist into the wall. “Fuck!” I roar.
Ned’s no longer shouting, and when I glance over at my friend, he looks like he’s taking stock of the apartment. I snap to attention, noticing the pillow on the floor. Next, the mug shattered near the coffee table, ceramic shards scattered in a pattern that speaks of impact rather than accident.
